Review of Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban

It's a rainy Sunday. It's colder than it should be this time of the year, so I'm drinking a delicious cup of coffee and I'm browsing my Goodreads shelves only to realise that I haven't written a Harry Potter review. Not a single one. So, I decided to start with the first Harry Potter book I ever read, the one that took me to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and made me believe that magic is something tangible.
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

I was 16 years old, and I had just started my english classes in order to pass my Proficiency examinations. My teacher told me that the best way to delve into a foreign language and familiarize with it is to read books written in it, so she gave me the third instalment of Harry Potter. (Little did she know that she unleashed a beast who now reads almost exclusively in english). Before I tell you about my experience, I need to make a confession. It was my choice to stay away from J.K. Rowling's books until that moment. I wanted to swim against the current, and I thought that Harry Potter was too "mainstream" for my taste. And the foolish little me was proud of this decision. But when my teacher gave me this old, used copy, something inside me cracked. I knew the basics about the story, about the orphan kid who goes to a school for wizards and fights the ugly, evil dude who doesn't have a nose. But page by page, I came to understand with awe that the wizard who finds trouble even when he doesn't want to offers more than that; he opened a portal to a world where I longed to be fervently. I stayed up late at night, with a faint light just enough to make out the sentences, and I cheered for Gryffindor's Quidditch team, I flied with Firebolt and I kept wondering what my patronus would be (according to Pottermore it's a brown mastiff, which is oddly fitting). I casted spells (but never Avada Kedavra, you shouldn't play with this shit) and tasted butterbeer in Hogsmeade, and just like that, my life had changed irrevocably. I was a Potterhead. And I was proud of that. (my mum wasn't though, especially when I asked for a wand).
“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

There is a reason why J.K. Rowling is the fairy god-mother to millions of children (and adults) worldwide. Friendship, love, hope, they're present in her books even in the most desperate times, when Evil seems undefeatable, when no escape is visible. She encourages and empowers, shows that everything is possible, that strength and courage can be found within, when you have someone to hold your hand. Harry was a kid who was deprived of love yet he was capable of loving, it took him years but he finally found a place to belong, to feel safe and cared. Ron, with his witty lines and his constant presence, Hermione, my personal favorite, with her intelligence and compassion, they managed to enchant my prejudiced heart, and even now, years later, I'm still under their spell. I think I will always be.
“Don't let the muggles get you down.”

I'm still waiting for my Hogwarts letter, and secretly hope that Dobby is the one to blame. I still caress with affection the spines of my Harry Potter books (meanwhile I bought them all and finished the entire series in a week and a half) and laugh at Harry Potter jokes. And I know, and it's imprinted in my soul, that I'll never be a muggle again.